


We Deal in Gunpowder and Lead

by Sinedra



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan May or May Not have TB, Bandits & Outlaws, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Female Character of Color, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Indian Character, It Shall be a Surprise, Medium Honor Arthur Morgan, Morally Ambiguous Character, Murder, Period-Typical Racism, Romance, Slow Burn, not a lot but please be warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28930254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinedra/pseuds/Sinedra
Summary: She had decided that running into the Van der Linde Gang once was inevitable, twice was unfortunate, and three times was a whole lot of bad luck. Actually joining them? Utter insanity.A string of misfortunes have driven Indira from her home and far out west; forcing her to survive in America's frontier. Harsh realities aside - she can suffer those - the unthinkable happens: a dear friend is slaughtered by a gang wanted by every lawman here to San Francisco. Revenge eats her until it's too much and she has only one goal: kill Dutch van der Linde. Only Arthur Morgan keeps getting in her way. The rugged, infuriatingly loyal, rough speaking outlaw gets under her skin in the worst way; one that could derail her whole plan. And she can't seem to get away from him.When the wayward gang starts feeling like home, Indira knows she's in trouble. It's hard to justify the pain she'll cause Arthur, the others, for her own selfish vendetta. When Dutch begins leading them to ruin, the people she has learned to call family start to get hurt. Arthur's neck is on the line, hers too. Can she kill Dutch to save them all despite the pain she'd cause? Could a single soul even be saved?
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Original Character(s), Arthur Morgan & Original Female Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Original Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	We Deal in Gunpowder and Lead

Hilariously, leaning closer to the hysterical, out of all the places she had seen herself in life, this had never been an option. The present moment was so fantastical that it couldn’t be factual. How she begged to wake up, to end the nightmare, and be so very far from here.  


The woman dared to look at the others upon the gallows with her: four identical nooses for four equally fucked individuals. A lawman was reading off their names and their charges, but she could hardly focus as a deputy went down the line. Tightening nooses as he went, whistled cheerily as the ropes pulled taut.  


“Robert Miller: two counts of cattle rustling.” The kid – for that’s all he was – had pissed himself. Onlookers laughed, pointed, at the dark stain on his pants. Silently he cried; shivering like a leaf in a hurricane.  


“Bill Williamson,” a pause came from the sheriff so he could sneer at the man who dared to spit at the crowd, “this degenerate will hang for numerous counts of murder, theft, kidnapping, and a host of other crimes committed with the Van der Linde Gang.”  


Bill laughed madly; nodding his head toward the gaping wilderness beyond town limits. “You have no idea what’s comin’, you idjits.” The deputy gave the rope a harsh yank, but the choked laughter was a haunting sound. Women cowered while men turned away, the sheriff continued without a rebuke.  


“Vincent O’Riley: one count of stagecoach robbery and three counts of murder.” He was the one beside her, giving her a nasty side eye. Measuring her with a deep scowl. Wasn’t he afraid to die?  


Much like Robert, she quivered rather uncontrollably. Her skirt hid the worst of it, yet it couldn’t hide the heaving of her chest as the deputy stepped up behind her. There was no kindness in how he handled her; checking the noose rather brutishly, pulling her long hair and ignoring the hiss of pain. “I didn’t do anything.” It was a hoarse, quiet plea. One she hadn’t been able to voice before. “Please, I’m innocent.”  


“Indira Bakshi: three counts of murder-“  


“No!” She pulled as far as the noose would allow. “I didn’t murder them! It wasn’t me!”  


“Kill her!”  


“You deserve to die you murdering bitch!”  


“Our country isn’t for the likes of you!”  


Indira had suffered insults because of her heritage before, but never this unanimously vocal. If Bill had incited fear, then she induced hatred. No one was willing to listen to a word she said; for every plea she tried to articulate, the people roared over her. Drowning out her voice completely.  


“Quiet!! Quiet down!” The sheriff demanded and, this time, they listened. “All of you are sentenced to hang by the neck until dead.”  


The world waited with bated breath as they stared upon the gallows in anticipation. Indira would be able to recall this moment with poignant clarity with every waking breath. For a moment the world was more vibrant and terrifying. Clouds were a clear, steely gray with curves so gentle they couldn’t be real; the air smelled like mud, shit, and of fresh grass with a hint of cooked vegetables. She noticed the coarseness of her skirt and the chill of the buttons on her sleeves. The sharp clank-clank-clank of the deputy’s spurs as he moved to the lever.  


She noticed a hundred small details she often overlooked; ones she would never get to truly appreciate. Despite the desperation, her attention was stolen away.  


Five men were approaching the crowd; walking forward with frightening conviction. Their features covered by bandanas and guns in hand. Her heart leapt in horrified hope and unflinching readiness. Was it better to die by bullet than being hung? It was a cavalier thought, given her predicament.  


“Hold it!” The sheriff cried to the newcomers; noticing a fraction after her hyper-aware state. “Stop right there!”  


They keep marching forward.  


The crowd, a huddled herd whose sole focus was on the execution before their eyes, began chanting. “Hang them! Hang them! Hang them!” It became the tempo that she counted their steps to. Too soon, the deputy’s hand found the lever, she found herself taking in one last desperate breath. One last intake of life; her eyes on the line of men as they hit the edge of the congregation. In a uniform fashion, they raised their guns and aimed toward the stand she now stood upon. Was fate truly so cruel? Was her karma so bad that this was how her life ended?  


If she did come back, she thought with a familiar haughtiness, she would come back as a mirror. Screw reincarnation. Act as tormentor to her unwitting aggressors? That was an unflinching yes. Have them tear themselves apart, be the tool of their own self-deprivation, mentally sabotage them, as they would her destroy her today. That was karma.  
So, when she felt the wood give way beneath her feet, she was no longer surprised when gunshots rang out. It was almost with satisfaction that she took in the confused cries and delayed shouts. As focused as she was, it almost didn’t register that there was no blinding pain; no fight for air. It took her back hitting the ground – with a deep oof – to realize that she wasn’t going to die.  


Indira coughed bit as she struggled to sit up. Her bound wrists proved a hindrance, but she had much bigger concerns right now.  


Firstly, the whole situation had escalated. Gunshots echoed from all around her with no longer a clear divide between those shooting and those not. Secondly, she had not been the only one to make it. All four of them had smacked the ground instead of snapping their necks. One look at Vincent’s rope showed it hadn’t frayed, so had they been shot down? Did it really matter? Third, was Bill was hooting and hollering as he staggered to his feet.  


“Good ol’ Dutch!” He cackled in a maniacal way that sent Vincent crawling clear away from him. “You sons of bitches, I told you! Die you bastards, die!” Then, without a modicum of rightly placed fear, he strode straight into the chaos.  


She didn’t wait to see what would happen to him or any of them. Indira pushed herself to her feet and started running. She avoided fleeing from the wild crowd, staying right along the edge. Putting herself in the pandemonium where she was unlikely to be remembered or tracked. After all, there was a shoot-out going on. Not that it was at all safe; she did feel a stray bullet or two whizz far too close to her person and the panicked townsfolk had no problems pushing or trampling others. It was a stampede of idiots and yet it was still more anonymous than running through town like poor Robert.  


The shrill whiny of horses became the second loudest noise she heard. With the pounding of hooves, this was a stampede proper. Rearing steads were suddenly yet another obstacle to avoid. Out of the corner of her eye she spots one horse racing out of town, then another, she’s pretty sure Bill is on one of them. Then more follow after and she isn’t sure if it’s lawmen or outlaws and she doesn’t quite care one way or another; as long as they aren’t following her.  


But that assurance doesn’t last.  


A hand grasped the back of her shirt; a strangled shriek tears from her throat. Indira was slung over the back of a horse, on her stomach, as she is lurched out of town. Ever single rock and dip in the road is pushed into her gut. Every kick of the spurs into the beast’s flanks is the air shoved from her lungs. It is an acute misery and once more she asks the universe what she did to deserve this. A horse… of all creatures for her to be stuck with, it had to be a horse.  


They continue on that way, her captor and her, until the sounds from town are nonexistent. Until it’s just the steady beat of hooves and the dust being kicked up in their wake. It’s a sure reminder that she’s alive and yet she is anything but grateful. “Let,” she coughed out, “me, “ another deep gasp, “go!”  


The horse skids to a sudden stop; the momentum nearly dropping her to the ground. Did the rider forget all about her? With a sigh of relief, she is pulled into a sitting position – her back to him and facing her escaped fate – and her wrists cut free. The resulting groan was embarrassingly loud and yet the sudden return of feeling is too good to care. “Oh, fuck,” she rubbed them, wincing at the pain, “bloody hell that hurts.”  


“Quiet, woman.” It was a rough voice; one that made her want to cover her ears, one that caused a chill down her spine. Calloused and coarse, like the desert threatening to swallow them whole. He clearly did not have an ounce of sophistication. Even from where she’d been renting, in a town far from a world she had come to associate with comfort, the accent was heavy.  


“After almost dying? I don’t think so-“  


A gloved hand clamped down over her mouth. That voice was in her ear when he said, “I told you to shut your mouth, understand?” Even with a bandana, his breath was hot against her neck; the glint from his revolver bright in her peripheral. Indira would not be frightened by him. Whatever he was planning, she wasn’t going to allow it to happen. After all, an altruistic person would have let her go already.  


So, what was a poor girl to do? Fight back against the bastard, that’s what.  


Indira used her newly freed hands to give her leverage as she thrust herself back against the outlaw. Using her weight to shove him out of the saddle. He landed with a heavy thud; dropping the revolver as the fall has him stunned. In this time, the woman had turned to sit in the saddle. Indira hadn’t ridden a horse alone – not in years – but instinct took over and she dug her heels into the beast’s sides. Slapping the reins into its neck, driving it into a desperate gallop.  


The animal was now panicked and running aimlessly, the woman too busy holding on for dear life to control it, but its destination was away. It’s good enough for her. The saddle horn pushed into her pelvis, her hands fisted into the mane, and her legs squeezed tight against the middle; there was a surprising amount of concentration to it all. She was not concerned about survival; the saddle bags had to carry supplies to survive the wilderness. There are guns in holsters too, in case she’s followed.  


Indira has not yet learned that she will need to stop praising her good luck until weeks have passed, because she has less than she likes to think.  


With a sharp whistle, the horse slid once more to a surprise stop. This time she is nearly thrown, only saving herself with the grip of her thighs and little else. One kick, two, four, then six to spur the animal back to movement are of no avail. This time, it staunchly remains still. Even turning its ears back and stamping in agitation as she kicks and slaps and cries. There’s a deep bellow as a sharp crack fills the air. The frantic struggle stops so she can cover her head and cower in the saddle.  


“Made a mistake, girl!” He’s pissed. She risks a glance over her shoulder to see the dust-covered cowboy storming toward her. “I ain’t to be messed with!”  


He’s getting closer and she feels her life coming at an end once more. The sand is sharp, it stings in her eyes as the horse continues to shift nervously under her. Another shot is sent flying over her head. She has one last gamble before it’s all over. Rani and Pratima would never know what happened to her, she would never get to explain what drove her west. She owed her sisters, her father, an explanation. So, she was not going to allow herself to die here.  


So, Indira did the one thing she could do: pulled one of his rifles on him. The muzzle aimed right at his chest. The stranger paused, only a handful of feet away now; revolver pointed up at her. “You are going to let me go and we will part ways amicably.”  


“Oh really? You know how to shoot that thing?”  


His features were inscrutable, but hers were not. Her brown hair had come loose, framing her figure in wild way of her own, lips curled in a cold smile. One she didn’t feel due to the pounding of her heart against her ribs. “Test me and you’ll find out.”  


“Why don’tcha put down the gun and get off the horse.”  


“I would love to, but you have to holster yours first.”  


“Don’t think so, girl, I could shoot you faster than you could pull that trigger.”  


“And what about your horse?” She hissed, moving her finger to the trigger to show him she wouldn’t hesitate. “If I move, you might hit it and we’ll both be stranded out her together. That’s if we don’t kill each other first, because, even if it’s my last breath, I will shoot in turn and take you with me.” He said nothing, didn’t move, hardly blinked. She, on the other hand, was panting heavily. Trembling, but firm in her stance. She never lowered the gun; not even a hair. “I just want to get the hell away from here,” she said, her voice breaking a bit. Green eyes betraying her frightened desperation. “Let me go. Please, let me go free. You can have your bloody horse; I just want my life.”  


The outlaw’s posture changed – so slightly she about missed it. The revolver lowered just enough that it wasn’t aimed right at her, his imposing height slouched, and the fire in those eyes doused as if it was never there. “Wasn’t gonna hurt you.” Was that so? She could have laughed at how believable it was. “Get goin’,” he waved his gun at her, “I ain’t got time for this all. I’m a wanted man, girl.”  


“I’m no girl, cowpoke.” Ha, there was a bit of that fire again. If she could have seen his face, she figured his look would had been just as dangerous. She’d been west long enough to know the insult for what it was. “And, I’m trying.” Her light brown cheeks flushing. “It’s a very tall horse.”  


The stranger huffed what might have been a laugh before holstering the revolver, holding up his hands to her. “Put the rifle back and I’ll get’cha down.” She held it up higher and he growled. “Lady, we’re runnin’ out of time!”  


“Show me your face.”  


“’Scuse me?”  


“You’ve seen mine; you know my name. It’s collateral, we can’t turn each other in if we know each other’s names.”  


His laugh was more pleasant than his voice and yet so condescending. “You sho’ don’t understand the outlaw life, miss.” And, yet, he pulled down the bandana to reveal a very rugged face. He needed a shave and his nose was a bit crooked, but – for an outlaw with rudimentary English – he didn’t look as horrible as she had prepared for. “Better?”  


“Name?”  


“Nuh-uh, not how this works. See, Miss Backsea-“  


“Bakshi,” she seethed.  


He shrugged. “Don’t much care,” he said. “I got your name, I know your crime, now you got my face. S’all I have to give and even that’s already mighty generous.”  


She lowered the rifle from his chest, eyes hard as she examined him. “Seems like awful big words for a man on the run, with a gun to his balls.” Oh, she hadn’t stopped aiming, not one second.  


Those lips twisted in a ruthless smirk; she should have recognized danger when it stared her in the face. His hand shot out to grab the rifle by the barrel, jerking it downward in a surprising show of speed. Her reaction came too slow, already falling before she had let go. It was a bit humiliating to be on her back for the second time that day, but at least the first time she wasn’t coughing on dust. Nor had she been staring down the barrel of a rifle.  


“You’re right,” he drawled slowly, “but I wasn’t the one ‘bout to be executed and I sho’ as hell ain’t the one in danger. You shouldn’t be so quick to trust, and, next time, make sho’ the damn gun is loaded before you start runnin’ your mouth.”  


Her heart had leapt to her throat, fear had locked her body, but as an emerald gaze met blue-green, there was a silent understanding. He was giving her a harsh lesson and she had better listen and listen well. “I won’t make the same mistake again.” It was her promise. He nodded and stepped away, mounting his horse, all while watching her stand. Carefully studying every movement, right down to brushing the dust off her skirt and twisting her hair into a loose knot. “Where can I go?”  


He huffed, eyes suddenly on the horizon. Watching, she assumed, for danger. “Nothin’ out here for you. Better go east, girl.”  


“Can’t go back east.”  


The look he gave wasn’t even marginally sympathetic. “Then don’t go fuckin’ anywhere, I don’t give a shit. But they’ll be lookin’ for you. Better figure it out and get goin’, fast. Take it from an old reprobate.” He smirked at himself and she had the feeling she had missed a joke. “Before that, you should worry ‘bout getting through the desert alone tonight.”  


She straightened her spine and stared up at him indignantly, saying, “Don’t underestimate me, cowboy, I’ve escaped death twice today.” He opened his mouth, probably to point out how wrong she was, but she smacked the rump of his horse. Startling it into a quick canter. “I’ll make it!” She called after him, though he only spared her a single glance over his shoulder. “I’ll survive, mark my words!”  


Only when he was a blur in the distance did she begin making good on her promise. Shelter, she needed to find shelter and a way to stay warm. Next, find water. The sun was at her back as she began walking, using his path as a start for her own journey of freedom.  


A whistle faded into the desert as the woman walked. They wouldn’t find Indira Bakshi to hang her again, nor did they find Bill Williamson, only a poor starving boy and a lone robber met with the rope in that little town.  


The rumors would say that the other two vanished without a trace.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be Hindu cultural references later in the story, I am doing my best to make sure I study them respectfully and depict them equally so. That said, please tell me if I get it wrong or if I don't. It's difficult to find anything about the culture during this time period, so links or personal knowledge are always welcome.


End file.
